If You Give a Wilson Wonderland
by Verbal Kint10
Summary: Written for Sick!Wilson Fest on LJ. Wilson's has Cotard's Syndrome, which is the delusion that one is dead and their life is the afterlife.


**A/N:** **While I consider this a tie-in to my one-shot If You Give a Cripple a Cupcake**,** it can most-definitely be read by itself. Seriously. No joke folks. And, I have to give an obnoxiously large HURRAH to my betas, blackmare_9 and nightdog_barks. Without them, reading this would be like brushing your teeth with a porcupine or something similarly uncomfortable.**

**Disclaimer: ****Do you ever get the feeling you're not David Shore? Because I have that feeling right now.**

**If You Give a Wilson Wonderland**

You know you'll get over this before he does. But you'll revise that thought until it means "think" instead of "know," because you can never be sure that he'll care. You don't care.

You don't know if you'll be able to talk to him anymore, not even Him. In fact, He should've been here by now, but He's not. Neither is she, and you don't believe anymore. That's fine; you're not entirely sure you ever did.

House was right. You think about that, and suddenly it doesn't sound clichéd anymore. You think about that, and suddenly it doesn't feel so wrong to pick him over Amber and God and pastrami sandwiches and half-off designer ties at Dillard's. You think about that on May 15th, the day after you died, and suddenly you miss him more than anything you've ever missed in your entire life. But at least there's time for it now that time's all you have.

You see him the next day, but he doesn't see you. He thinks he sees you, but if he ever really sees you then he'll know. He'll see the clumps of dirt flossed between your fingers. He'll see the maggot shit trailing off your face and the wet grass slicing up your corneas and your eyebrows. He'll see the piss stains on your pants, the last ones you'll make. He'll see the leaves stuck to your elbows, where pus oozes from mere paper cuts and blood halts in cold gashes. He'll see your eyes, how still they are, how that thin, misty film has settled over your dilated pupils like mouthwash in a clogged sink. Then he'll see you. He'll see you in your vat of horrific, stupidly poetic unpleasantries, and then he'll say, "We were both right, Wilson."

So you are both right. You know you're dead. He knows that doesn't mean a goddamn thing.

Only, he doesn't believe you. He doesn't know you're right, just like for this one tiny, insignificant moment of his life he doesn't know he's right. Not yet, at least. So for now you're in a hospital bed. He's telling you you're concussed. You're telling him you're dead. He says you were in an accident. You say you were eaten by a dinosaur. He tells you he'll run some tests. You tell him you were electrocuted by the world's largest guitar amp. He tells you you're an idiot. You tell him you drowned in a bowl of alphabet soup, and that when they found your body, the words 'I love you' were stuck to your forehead in backwards noodles. You tell him this because above all, you do not want to be boring.

He tells you that you're okay, and you say that's bullshit, and he agrees. But just this once, he says it again. You're okay.

House fucks with you during the MRI, and you know this. He tells you he's just asking questions. You ask why and he says it's because he already knows the answer. He talks into the microphone, tells you he's God because he's not sure you remember saying that yourself, but you do. Then he asks you what it's like to be dead. You tell him it's a little like being alive.

People don't look at you differently now that you're dead. You think maybe it's because you're not that far gone yet. You're still water on the pH scale, not sure what number comes after seven. House mentioned a bus, but it hasn't stopped for you. You're falling asleep now, and House tells you that's okay just as long as you tell him what it's like when you wake up. You won't tell him because you won't remember, but you can imagine. Just like you can imagine her.

You don't think about her as much anymore. You still love her, but she's the old movie you haven't seen in a very long time. You can only remember short scenes, little tidbits of characterization that make you smile when someone reminds you of them. When House reminds you of them. And then there are the smaller things, the prettier things. Her cheeks, her eyes, her hands. You want to say her hair, but you know that's only because of the smell, because now you can't stand your own.

It's the smell that wakes you up. The smell of your own waste as it soaks beneath your skin, like old roast beef doused in sweat. You'll explode sooner or later, you know it. And all your guilt and false altruism and resentment and loneliness will marinate in a gelatinous stew of you, and you'll become one of those decomposing heart attack victims found bloated in a bathtub, like you swore you'd never be. You want to vomit, but there's nothing left to heave. And still, this is you.

House sits with you for two more hours, until he's pale and dark circles fill the patches below his eyes. He takes a pill, and you answer his question by telling him that there, where he lives, pills will never be enough. He nods and tells you he knows. But you don't think he does because here, where you die, all you need is time. And time's all you have.

On the day House says he can fix you, you meet her on the bus. You tell her you miss her. She tells you she loves you. Then she tells you that you don't have to be there. And just as you're considering telling her the truth, the words "I know" spill out of your mouth, and you can't find a way to bring them back. She starts a sentence with "But" and you finish it with "it doesn't hurt here."

But it does hurt, and you know this. It just doesn't hurt you.

You look at her like you've never seen her before, because that's what it takes to really love her again. You're sorry about it all but you tell her you're not. You're not sorry you can't think of anything else to say but you tell her you are. You're sorry you care about him more, and you're sorry you always did, but she's not. And as you tell her you're not ready, she smiles and sends you on your way.

So you look out the window. The light pours in with the dread of darkness and death and destitution, and you kiss her because he'd want you to, knowing you'll never do so again. The end is a good one.

The taste is still on your lips when you wake up. The light makes your eyes water and your head throb, but House is there and all you smell is iodine.

You get the distinct feeling that he's right. About what, you don't remember.

Later, he'll tell you all about it. Now you chew on ice cubes while he asks you what it's like to be alive. You make some smartass comment about life being a series of isolated incidents into which we weave meaning because we're bored. He calls you a copycat and you claim it's just the Demerol.

He smiles because he thinks you're too high to care, and you half-heartedly return it because you're still not sure you're ready. But there's time for that now that time's all you have.

**The end**


End file.
